Very Fawnedly Yours

© 2013 by Walter Reimer

(All characters courtesy of  eocostello,  mercmarten and  marmelmm. Any resemblance between characters depicted herein and any real person, living or dead, is too bad for them.)

The setting is Spontoon Island, in the story section Let's Doe It (Let's Fall In Love).

Art by  turnbolt

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Part 11.


Reggie:

The board meeting ended shortly after one o’clock, with all of us feeling a bit wan from hunger. Not so the Sire, who grazed on his snacks throughout the meeting.

It transpired that he took his luncheon in a private dining room. Any other fur unlucky enough to dine with him was admitted by invitation only.

This was only my first day on the job, so I was not among the favored few. Which suited me straight down to my hooves. Besides, the executive dining room was probably far nicer.

Word of my outburst in the boardroom had undoubtedly gotten around. Furtive heads peered out at me as I passed, or suddenly withdrew if I glanced in that direction.

I resolved to keep things like that under strict guard, as befits any ammunition bunker. Les would approve of keeping explosives under lock and key.

I was shown to a table in the dining room and a menu was presented by a waiter in spotless white. The selections could have rivaled those of the Savoy Grill, but I was careful to pick something that wouldn’t turn into a cannonball in my tummies.

I still had to get through the afternoon.

“Excuse me? Reggie?”

“Oh, hullo, Cousin Stanley. Please, have a seat.” I waved at a chair.

“If I’m intruding – “

“Good Lord, no! As it is, I think people are afraid I’ll explode again, and get hit by the shrapnel.”

Stanley smiled at that and lowered himself into a chair, which creaked alarmingly under him but showed no sign of failing completely. As he ordered, I sipped at a glass of lemonade and took a moment to look him over.

Finally he sat back, a chilled glass of water near at paw. “Yes?”

“What was that the Sire was saying? A stevedore?”

“He never stops reminding me that I worked before getting an office job here,” my bulky cousin grumbled. “Thought I’d see every side of the business before getting to have a say in running things.”

Now, this was a corker of an idea, and I as much as said so. “It’d be good for all concerned, I think, if more people did what you did.”

He waggled a paw easily the size of a catcher’s mitt. “Maybe so. One thing I did was ship out on the City of Beaver Falls for six months. We stopped at a few places. Spontoon, f’rinstance.”

“I say! Really?”

“Really. The Beaver stops at a few places around the Pacific, and I learned a bit of the local lingo.”

“Ah.”

“Did you know what you were saying? Back there?”

“Um. No.”

We sat back momentarily as our lunches arrived, and we ate in silence for a few minutes before I mustered up the courage to ask, “What did I say?”

“Well, near as I can make out . . . “

He leaned in and whispered in my pink and shell-like.

Which promptly turned a bright and cheery cherry red.

“Good Lord.”


***


Willow:

Benson sat back as I finished. Tea was served.

His expression had gone a bit formal as he lowered his teacup. “Agent Fawnsworthy, while I can certainly sympathize, agency policy – “

“Forbids agents from using Minkerton’s resources for personal reasons,” I said promptly. “I know. But all I wanted was a bit of information.”

“Something you could use, you said.”

“Well, yes.”

“Hmmph,” he snorted. A small silent movie card appeared in my mind’s eye with a translation.

Typical American, it read, with appropriate cinema piano music.

I resisted the urge to point out that I was, in fact, not American but from New Haven. Of course, that was scarcely better. Both before and after the Revolt, New Havenites had a certain reputation.

Better try another tack, Willow.

“Since policy forbids – suppose I asked for a background check on one of my household staff?”


***


Reggie:

I’m certainly not saying anything like that again.

Someone else might know what it means.

Lunchtime over, and it was back to work. Once again, Miss Haversham proved a veritable gold mine of information as I worked through the files she brought me.

Finally she said, “It’s five o’clock, Mr. Buckhorn.”

“Is it?” A glance at my watch confirmed it. “My word, where does the time go? You would think a stay in Purgatory would last longer.”

She tittered behind a paw. “Come now, it’s not so bad as all that, sir. I’ll gather up these files and give them to one of the boys to put away.” She stood up and headed for her desk.

“Have a good night, Miss Haversham.” I started putting things away and as I closed my briefcase and heard Father barracking some poor soul. I wondered when he went home. “Um, Miss Haversham?”

“Yes, sir?” Good, she hadn’t left yet.

“When does my father leave?”

“He’s leaving now. Some nights, though, if there’s an important deal to be worked through, he won’t leave until close to midnight. Will that be all?”

“Thank you, Miss Haversham.”

I headed downstairs and found Nosey waiting at the curb, the Crossley’s motor purring like a large and very happy kitten. Amazing, when you realize what he puts the poor car through every time he’s behind the wheel.

“’Ome, Guv’nor?”

“Yes, please, Nosey.” Being warned, I braced myself against the door and the back of the seat so that the abrupt start didn’t have me bouncing all over like one of those Mixtecan jumping thingies.

I wasn’t looking at my watch (I had my eyes closed), but I will swear, paw on heart, that we reached the house before we left the office.

Nosey opened the door for me as I climbed out on shaky hooves. “Roight, Guv’nor. Yer lookin’ better. Me bruvver sez ya gets used t’it after a whoile.”

“Your brother?”

“Yeah, Guv. There’s some wot say thot he taught George Formless ever’ting he knows - but nowt about music; and ‘e ‘as these little bunnies painted on ‘is knees. But he’s onny me bruvver Stig.”

“Did your brother teach you how to drive?”

Nosey smiled proudly. “Ever’ting I know, Guv’nor.”

That explains a lot.

Coney had done an absolutely spiffing job with dinner, and Willow looked beautiful as always. She told me about meeting our new neighbors (at least the distaff side of them). I told her about work, which – if you see it from a distance – wasn’t actually all that bad.

Sort of like First Ypres might not look so bad to one who was there, twenty-odd years on.

But Willow looked a bit worried, and I asked her why.


***


Willow:

I almost wished he hadn’t asked. The poor dear looked tired from his first day at work.

“Well, Reggie, we got some mail.”

“Bad news?”

“I – “

He took my paw in his.

“It’s from the real estate people.” And I told him everything.

Reggie looked a bit crestfallen. “Pity. I was just starting to like the look of this place.”

“We’re not turned out into the street in our underwear just yet, darling,” I hastened to assure him. “I’ve taken a few steps to get to the bottom of this.”

“Really?”

“Really. You concentrate on work, and leave this to me.”

“You’re not going to – “

“No. I’ve contacted a firm of solicitors.”

“Oh.”

“What, darling?”

“You engaged solicitors. I thought you were going to do things aboveboard.”

“Oh, ha ha.” We both started to laugh.

He leaned close. “You will let me know what you’re doing, will you?”

“Of course.”

We sealed the deal with a long smooch.

Which led to us going upstairs.

The next day I saw Reggie off to work and had a brief phone conversation with the principal partner in the law firm of Bunn, Whackett, Buzzard, Stubble and Boot. Said principal partner being Elias Bunn, QC, a rabbit according to Lodge’s information.

The gist of the conversation was this:

1. Yes, I could come in and retain one of the partners.

2. Yes, the estate agents were in the wrong (or would be, provided that their misfeasance could be established).

3. No, this could not be handled over the phone.

4. Yes, an appointment for the next afternoon would be convenient, and thank you.

5. Click.

Not exactly a satisfying interview.

After lunch I had an equally unsatisfying interview, this time in the person of one Abner Neatsfoot, one of the estate agents who sold us the house.

I received him in the drawing room, with Lodge present. Mr. Neatsfoot was a deer, sort of short and stocky, wearing a suit that had shiny worn patches on the elbows of his jacket. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Buckhorn,” he said with an ingratiating smile.

His unctuous tone reminded me of a carpet merchant in Cairo (“For you, my friend, I make nice special price . . . “).

“Mr. Neatsfoot.”

“Have you, ah, received our letter?”

“We have.”

He had a habit of clasping and unclasping his paws.

I thought it was a bit irritating.

“And, ah, have you, ah, sent us the payment we, ah, requested?”

“No.”

An expression of shock flitted across his muzzle before the smile managed to paste itself back into position.

I wanted to paste him one, all right.

“Why not, Mrs. Buckhorn?”

“Because my husband and I do not think we should have to pay two times the amount you stated – in writing, may I add - for this house.”

Again, that smile.

One thing for sure, Mr. Neatsfoot was an oily character.

I thought for certain that threats of eviction or lawsuits were in the offing, but the man instead graciously allowed us two weeks to pay up. Or there would be consequences.

On that sour note, he slithered out. I know deer can’t slither, but this slob’s more snake than cervine.

Around tea-time that afternoon the doorbell rang, and Lodge appeared at the door to the drawing room. “Excuse me, Mrs. Buckhorn.”

“Yes, Lodge?”

“This has come for you. By messenger.” The beaver had a thick plain brown envelope in one paw.

“Thank you very much, Lodge.” I slit open the envelope and started to peruse the contents. As I read through things, I started to smile.

Lodge took that as his cue to leave. He’s seen that smile before.



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